


Little Boy Blue

by fuckityfardisgetinthetardis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft's voice is pure sex, Orgasm Without Touch, Sibling Incest, Voice Kink, gets a little sad, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckityfardisgetinthetardis/pseuds/fuckityfardisgetinthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft tries something new on his little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Blue

_Little Boy Blue,_   
_ Come blow your horn,_   
_The sheep's in the meadow,_   
_ The cow's in the corn;_

Sherlock was bored. So _terribly_ bored. John was “out.” He just, “needed to get out.” Away from “everything.” It wasn’t the first time John had stormed out like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but Sherlock wished John would be more specific when describing what had so infuriated him. He absent-mindedly rubbed the heel of his palm against his groin, swathed in the layers of his silk pyjamas. He sighed, again, ashamed of himself for giving into such pedestrian activities. During cases, he never masturbated; the thrill of an investigation was normally enough to satisfy his need for a dopamine rush, besides, he really was a case of ‘mind over matter.’ He had always been more eager to sate his intellectual, rather than primal, urges. So it was now, during an apparent lull in the world of crime that Sherlock Holmes resignedly laid back and took himself in hand. He closed his eyes, and focused on the sensation, hoping to achieve something that would at least make him _feel_ accomplished.

So powerful was his concentration, that he almost didn’t notice the polished tones of his elder brother invading his stupor.

“Enjoying ourselves are we?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened immediately, to find Mycroft smiling at him. Smugly, obviously.

“And in pyjamas, at this time of the day? It’s almost three.”

Sherlock smiled inwardly at his brother’s stubborn refusal to state the obvious. 

“Mycroft, how about we get to the matter at hand?” Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly to his crotch, where his long fingers were still wrapped around his half –hard cock. 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock’s crotch as if it were a cricket match. No, wait, bad analogy. A matinee of Le Mis would probably fit better. Sherlock didn’t know if anyone could look more nonchalant.

This was a first. He half expected Mycroft to turn a violent shade of pink, and stride out the room, while muttering something about Sherlock’s insolence. Instead he surveyed him coolly, his eyes never wandering from Sherlock’s.

“So?” Mycroft shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t know you pleasure yourself, _dear brother_ , you are a grown man after all.”

There was a slight edge on the words “dear brother”, an almost purr, the vowels elongated in a manner that only Mycroft’s vocal chords could produce. His words also had an impact on Sherlock’s anatomy; his cheeks flushed a brazen scarlet, the hairs rose on his slender neck, and more importantly, his cock gave a little twitch of approval.

_Oh._  He thought he had outgrown this.

_Where is that boy_   
_ Who looks after the sheep?_   
_Under the haystack_   
_ Fast asleep._

When had that voice, that damn voice, turned from being comforting, the same one which had _sung him nursery rhymes for fuck’s sake_ , to one of unrelenting carnal torment? It was somewhere along the heated haze of early adolescence, but Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint it. 

The change in his appearance hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mycroft, who still leant blithely against the wall. However, his temperament had transformed: gone was the prim government official, the outward appearance of conservatism. Instead, he was channelling his darker side, the side that mingled with the dirtiest of C.I.A operations, the side tainted with sadism and bloodlust. The side that stood, scrutinising his younger brother, smirking with uninhibited mirth.

Mycroft tutted. “As flattered as I am, little one, this obsession with me is a bit unhealthy, don’t you agree?”

_He knew. Oh God._

He felt nausea and fear pooling in his stomach, his chest began to ache and his mind began to _reel._

_Of course he did._

Mycroft grinned. 

“Oh, come now. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Smudgy fingerprints all over my school photographs, furtive glances at dinner, and those blushes, oh-my dear Sherlock, you might have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those pesky red cheeks. Mummy and Daddy don’t know, though. Pinky swear.” The laughter in his voice was hardly supressed, and Sherlock was _shaking_ now. 

Mycroft advanced towards Sherlock, and drew up a stool so they sat face to face. Sherlock was still slouched in his armchair, hand unmoved. It could have been seen as defiance, had Mycroft not known that what kept Sherlock glued in position was fear, not courage.

“But what to do with you, hmm?” he crooned, voice like spider silk. “We can’t possibly leave you like this, can we?”

Although his throat had seized up, and his mouth had gone dry and clammy, his voice found him. He **was** going to get what he wanted.

“Touch me.”

He sounded hoarse, but not frightened. His words were firm, but not emotionally ingrained. He was careful not to seem weak, and spoke as if he were relaying orders, eyes locked onto Mycroft’s by sheer power of will. 

Mycroft pouted at his words, and leaned back on his stool, eyebrow raised in disapproval.

Sherlock let out an anguished sigh, gaze now dropped to Mycroft’s shoes. He would have to lose this one.

_“Please.”_

Mycroft smiled the smallest of smiles, and cast his eyes downward, thinking.  

“Very well then.”

Sherlock could hear his heart pound faster as both adrenaline and dopamine fought for his attention.

“Clasp your hands together, and stretch your arms out.”

Sherlock obeyed. Mycroft undid his tie slowly. Too slowly. Sherlock thought back to when he was younger and saw Mycroft come home for the holidays; the first thing he’d do was remove his tie, pulling the fabric out of the knot in agonising increments, the material slipping between his slender fingers.  As the knot loosened, the delicate curve of his throat would be revealed.  Sherlock maintained this was still one of his favourite Mycroftian habits. This time, the bastard also undid the first _and_ second buttons of his crisp white shirt, showcasing a “v-shape” of smooth skin, with the lightest smattering of chest hair. Sherlock automatically reprimanded himself for staring, but then thought better of it. He earned this. He’d leer if he wanted to.

Sherlock surveyed the tie.  Solid, satin, purple.  Gieves and Hawkes, no doubt.  He watched intently as Mycroft wound it round his wrists, and pulled. Tight, but he could wriggle them. When Mycroft was satisfied he ordered Sherlock to raise his arms backwards, over the back of his chair. Sherlock knew he’d feel the burn of lactic acid soon, but he figured he’d be too aroused to notice.

“Good.”

Mycroft hopped off the stool, and walked back to where he previously stood. Sherlock was beyond a little peeved at this, his cock was throbbing, and he was in no mood for one of Mycroft’s games.

“You’re not touching me.”

“Yes, thank you for clearing that up Sherlock.” The sarcasm was more than palpable, and the annoyed slant of his voice was _delicious_ , but that didn’t leave Sherlock any more satisfied. 

“I’m going to try something. It’s been successful the last few times I’ve tried it, but I want you to understand I can’t wholly fulfil your request.”

Sherlock gave an exasperated grunt, and was immediately silenced by a single look.

“I won’t touch you. I _will_ speak to you. _And you will come for me_.”

As aroused as the last line made him, Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s absurd-how is that even-”

**_“Enough.”_ **

Mycroft spoke coldly now, a world away from the silky croon he used previously. This, Sherlock noted, was also highly titillating.

“You are a virgin, are you not?”

Sherlock blushed furiously, but nodded.

“And you have had no other sexual contact with anyone prior to this, correct?”

He nodded again, cheeks burning with shame.

“Then you have no say in this whatsoever, understood?”

Sherlock gave a single, final nod, confirmation that he was confined to his submissive role.

“Excellent.”

Mycroft leant against the wall again, examining a now bound, blushing and pliant Sherlock, head cocked to one side.

“You know Sherlock, if I were to touch you, I’d start with having you in my office.”

His brother’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” he continued, more to himself than Sherlock, “I’d press you against the surface of my desk, and prepare you. God, imagine my fingers pressing into your virgin flesh…the heat of it…”

Sherlock’s fingers began to clench into the fabric of his armchair.

“I’d scissor you, so gently at first….wouldn’t want to hurt you _little one_ , would I?”

This sudden infantile term of endearment made Sherlock’s heart skip, eyes close, and a little breathy moan escape his chapped lips. How could Mycroft make such loving, familial phrases sound so utterly _filthy_?

“I’d push until I found your prostate, crooking my fingers just so until I rub against it. You’ve never stimulated it, have you little brother? Imagine that sensation for the first time...strange at first, but as arousal grips you, _so good_ …”

Sherlock now found himself grinding into the seat of his chair, desperately trying to emulate the acts being described to him. He was located in his Mind Palace now, the scenario so vivid he couldn’t help but visualise it: he could practically smell Mycroft’s expensive cologne flooding the air and hear the soft, slick sounds of his brother’s talented fingers working inside him. Accompanying their carnival of sin was the distant clicking of heels on linoleum and the ringing of telephones in the background, made obscure by the thick haze of Mycroft’s voice coating every auditory nerve in silk.

“In your Mind Palace, again? How predictable. Please make sure Anthea doesn’t barge in, will you? I’d so hate for us to be interrupted, especially since we’re just getting started.”

Sherlock was leaking now, transparent drops of pre-ejaculate inching their way down his fully erect shaft. He could feel a warmth begin to spread in the pit of his abdomen, a delicious tightness that emanated throughout his groin.

“As soon as I’d pull out you’d arch back into me, like the insolent little wretch you are. You’d rut like a harlot against the polished wood of my desk with complete disregard for the fact that I’d force you to clean up any mess you made. Oh, how sweetly you’d beg for me to replace them, and I’d indulge you little one, like I always have…”

“Mycroft, please!” “Please!”

Mycroft chuckled.

“Dear brother, if I’d known this would instil some manners in you, I’d have done this _years_ ago.”

He continued, “I’d ease into you, but not before taking a good hard look at that sweet pink pucker of your arsehole, perfect, glistening, and just… _waiting for me_.”

Sherlock was now reduced to making unintelligible grunts, but still, he tried _so_ hard to get across the message that Mycroft should just _bloody well get on with it._

And needless to say, Mycroft understood.

“My thrusts would begin slow, you understand, to let you get used to being so _filled_. I wonder, dear one, how does it feel, to be stretched wide and pinned under me? To be put in your place? You wouldn’t be so impudent, I believe, with me hitting your sweet spot with every vicious thrust, pounding those little bundle of nerves which are so aching to be used. And use I would, while you are stretched out in complete and utter subordination, thighs burning and knuckles turning white, hands clenched over the side of my desk. You’d whine and plead, of course, but without the abhorrent impertinence and sarcasm of your childhood. Rather, your cries would be ones of need and anguish as you implored me to touch you, to _release_ you.”

And Sherlock was doing just that, damn near writhing in his chair, a fierce sweat breaking out across his pale brow. The fires of shame and arousal coloured his cheeks, and his breaths were rough and jagged.  His cock was somehow straining against itself; he was _so close_ now…. 

Perhaps if he imagined it, Mycroft’s warm hand caressing him to an orgasm, gently stroking the rose pink head of his shaft…

“As powerful as your imagination is Sherlock, I believe some vocal assistance might ameliorate the circumstances, hmm? I’d take you in hand, partly due to pity, but mostly due to the fact I don’t really want your seed to ruin the Carpathian elm of my worktop.”

Mycroft began walking towards him. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but he could hear his footsteps approaching, and his voice was slightly amplified. Mycroft was directly behind his chair now, and as he spoke, hot breath tickled his scalp then neck and ear. _Mycroft was sitting beside him._

“I’d stroke you little one, perhaps even better than when you stroke yourself. I know your weak spots, Sherlock. I’d circle your glans, before reaching down to massage your perineum, then rub your shaft with _just the right pressure and speed…._ ”

Sherlock recalled the tell-tale signs, the tightness in his abdomen had reached a fever pitch, _this was it…_

Mycroft leant in. His voice dropped to a devilish whisper, demanding and perfectly accentuated, invading the shell of Sherlock’s ear, masking him. A siren’s call about to destroy a sailor who was already shipwrecked.

“Come for me. **_Brother mine_**.”

And he did. Hot, thick spunk ruined his pyjamas, but he didn’t care. It was, without a doubt, the most powerful orgasm he’d ever had…and all without a single stroke. He was almost glad to admit defeat this time. Almost.

He opened his eyes, still breathing erratically, but feeling numb. He relished this, the afterglow of his orgasm rendering him unable to feel the embarrassment and guilt that would eventually seek him out. 

As he tucked himself away, and as his mind trickled slowly back into action, he focussed his attention on his brother. He was slightly disappointed that their little escapade had no effect on him. No tightness of his perfectly tailored suit trousers, no jagged breathing. He looked up. No flushing cheeks, no dilated pupils. He sighed mentally. Of course he wouldn’t show anything, after all, Mycroft _was_ Mycroft.

But it was when he looked into his brother’s blue eyes, really looked, that a sudden _terrifying_ realisation hit him.

No lust. None at all. Not even a single sparkling glint of triumph.

Instead, he saw **_pity_**.

His brother looked away, and got up. He unwound the tie quickly with a clinical detachment which frightened Sherlock to the core. 

“Mycroft…”

But Mycroft didn’t hear, and was already at the door.

**_“MYCROFT!”_ **

When Mycroft turned to face him, Sherlock couldn’t read his expression. He hadn’t seen it before. And then he realised why. He saw _fear_.

“Did you….”

His voice was wobbly, reminiscent of when he was eleven, of when he had asked Mycroft not to leave for university. Of when he had _begged_ him to stay.

“Did you want this as much as I did?”

For several agonising heartbeats, not a sound.  He closed his eyes, unwilling to read his brother’s face.  He could hear his brother walk towards him. Mycroft sighed.

Not an impatient, long suffering ‘big-brother’ sigh, this one was softer, and sadder. It had an unwavering tone of nostalgia, and a sort of sick desperation, that made Sherlock think that maybe, _just maybe_ , Mycroft did. 

He felt the press of warm lips against his damp forehead.

“Goodbye, Lockie.”

He heard more footsteps, and the front door close.

He then heard his eleven year old self reply. 

_“Goodbye, My.”_

Sherlock buried his face in his arms, and wept.

_Will you wake him?_   
_ No, not I,_   
_For if I do,_   
_ He's sure to cry._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle with me, this is my first Holmescest fic. Written because I just love Mycroft's voice. :)


End file.
